


Secret Santa

by Nana_41175



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Confessions, Drama, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Secret Santa, Some comedy, some grinding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21887206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: Of course, it was R. It had to be R, given that she was Q's secret Santa this year.Written for MI6 Cafe's Anon Prompt Exchange, week 3.Prompt: A Christmas Miracle? AU - Q wished upon a star (or wrote a joke-y email to Santa Claus?? something similar) that he’d get Bond for Christmas (either back alive from a mission, or just interested in him) - the next day Bond arrives, backs him up against a door and goes on to act out one of Q's workplace daydreams - cue happiness and panic: IS iT REAL? (is Santa real?) Is Q magic?Enjoy and Merry Christmas, everyone!
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 22
Kudos: 223
Collections: Mi6 Cafe Prompt Fills





	Secret Santa

Of course, it was R.

It had to be R, given that she was Q’s secret Santa for this year.

There was no other explanation, unless one still believed that Santa actually existed.

The way she saw it, Q needed to chill. He wasn’t fooling anyone, what with the way he was behaving toward 007. Behind his back, the minions had a lively bet going over who was going to fold first. As far as most were concerned, their boss stood no chance against Bond.

Still, Q had to be given some credit, holding out against 007 like that. R had hedged her bets to go both ways, because Q could, and did, manage 007. Extremely well, she might add.

And despite his actions, it was pretty obvious that Bond respected Q. He might be reckless, he might destroy equipment worth millions of pounds, but he was not going to go out of his way to jeopardize his personal relationship with his Quartermaster, sparse though it was.

That much was clear in the way he held himself off while Q castigated him over the latest loss of equipment in the field. R really could not blame 007 this time. The man had barely escaped with his life, so perhaps one could afford to be more understanding if he had to leave everything else behind.

Still, Q was incandescent with rage. He’d thought to flay Bond alive behind the closed door of his office, but he’d forgotten to turn the glass wall opaque. As a result, the minions were treated to the awesome spectacle of the Quartermaster dressing down an agent, his face controlled but pale with anger, his normally bland features hard. They could not hear him, but they knew his words could strip paint off the walls.

Bond, on the other hand, was impassive as he withstood the tongue-lashing, his gaze never leaving Q’s face for a single second.

 _Jesus bloody Christ,_ thought R. The eye-fucking was so intense, it was a wonder how both idiots could stand it for a moment longer without falling into each other’s arms and be done with it.

Afterward, Bond left, his face smooth but for a slight smirk playing around his lips.

The bastard knew, of course, thought R as she watched him go. He knew very well that this wasn’t over the loss of equipment, at all; but it was clear that he wasn’t going to act on any of this. 

It seemed 007 was waiting for something. A signal, perhaps.

It was time she stepped in.

R found Q sitting slumped behind his desk. Now that the episode with Bond was over, he looked completely drained.

“Hi,” she said brightly.

Startled, Q looked up from a diagram that he obviously was not studying, reflexively squaring his rounded shoulders. “Oh,” he said. “R. How can I help you?”

“I've been itching for a pint for days,” she said. “Care to join me later?”

She’d half-expected him to say no with a plethora of excuses. “It’s almost Christmas, after all,” she pressed on, “and I can’t be seen drinking on my own.”

Q considered for a moment. “Okay,” he said.

* * *

She’d only meant to make him tipsy, and only enough to loosen his tongue so that she could pry out the necessary information of what he wanted for Christmas. She was a very thorough Secret Santa, after all. What she’d not expected was Q delving deep into his cups or, in this case, his pints, while still keeping mum about his Christmas wishes. Even worse, he was morose and taciturn. It was clear that he'd come to drink himself into a stupor.

It was a good thing she had a plan B up her sleeve.

They were still taking shop desultorily when both their mobiles sounded, heralding incoming messages.

R raised a brow at the email, apparently sent from Q branch’s mysterious committee heading the Secret Santa drive, asking them to fill in their wish list, the better to aid their secret Santas. “They’re nothing if not efficient these days,” she noted. “The element of surprise be damned.”

“Surprise is overrated, anyway,” muttered Q as he stared at the message, and for a moment, R feared he wouldn’t take the bait.

But then he started to type. It was very short, just one word from what R could gather. When he was done, there was a bitter smile on his lips.

“What do you want for Christmas, Q?” she asked, smiling.

Q shook his head. “A miracle,” he muttered.

They split up soon afterward. R made sure to bundle Q into a cab; he was so drunk he could barely stand upright. She could only hope he would forget all about the email the next day.

As for her, there was work to do.

She scanned the wish list. Their names were coded, but of course she knew Q’s pseudonym.

And there it was, Q’s one and only wish for Christmas.

_Bond._

She picked up her phone again and dialed a number.

“007,” she said as soon as the man picked up, “I’ve been meaning to ask. How much does Q mean to you, exactly?”

-@-

Honestly, Q didn’t know what got into him yesterday.

He supposed he was just tired. Stressed out.

And Bond was an arsehole, scaring everybody like that during his last mission before he came back, cool as a cucumber, sauntering into Q branch as though he’d not been away for the better part of two weeks. He’d lost a fair amount of skin on his forearms and all of his equipment, but had emerged largely unscathed from the enormous explosion he’d set off in an undisclosed location in Macedonia.

It was his nonchalance that had got to Q, his thoughtlessness grating on his nerves like sharp fingernails scraping across a blackboard.

 _I worried myself sick over you,_ he would have wanted to say, but of course he couldn’t. Instead, he’d focused on the equipment. Always, the equipment. What else could he and Bond talk about, anyway?

Yet what had left his mouth was way too much for just the equipment. Afterward, it had made him cringe, the way he’d lost control of himself. The words had been enough to silence Bond. Indeed, the man had merely stood there, utterly speechless, during his entire tirade.

Then, to tidy up the scene, he’d said as a parting shot, “get out.”

Without a word, Bond had turned and left, obedient for once.

And that had been that.

It had been shocking. He’d been appalled at himself. Afterward, R’s kind invitation had seemed like just the thing he needed in order to forget for a while, and blessedly, he could not remember anything after his third pint.

Today he felt better after sleeping it off, though he had a dull headache for which he’d taken some medicine. He’d come to work on time, and managed to tell R, “whatever I divulged last night…”

“No worries, Boss,” she said, perfectly straight-faced.

Q closed his eyes briefly. ”I mean, I didn’t say anything…weird, did I?”

R pursed her lips and shook her head, her eyes wide and innocent.

“Good,” said Q, vastly relieved. He could always trust R to be discreet, anyway. “I’m glad. Thanks, R. Well. Carry on, then.”

He was inside his office the entire morning, not seeing anyone and hoping nobody would come to see him. Especially not a certain double-O agent.

He’d probably freaked Bond out, or offended him. There was nothing he could do about it for now, though he hoped Bond would give him a wide berth, at least until he could sort his feelings out.

He’d have to do something about this secret of his. It was eating him out from the inside and was nothing but a mad folly.

To be in love with Bond was to court disaster. The only thing worse than being in love with him was if the man actually _knew._

Q did not think he could take it if Bond even had a glimmer of an idea of how he felt toward him.

He sighed as he picked up his Scrabble mug. It was time for tea.

If he had his way, Bond would never, ever—

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he’d not even realized there was somebody standing right in front of him when he opened his door. Before he knew it, he’d collided into a warm, solid body encased in an expensive suit.

He only managed a shocked intake of breath before he felt firm hands around his arms, and he was being marched backward into his room, his door closing behind them. For one confusing moment, his face was full of the man’s charcoal-grey suit. Then he turned his head a fraction and caught Bond’s amused blue gaze.

“Bond!” he gasped just as he was pinned against the door with Bond’s hands on his wrists.

“Mind the mug, now,” said Bond, glancing at the thing Q still held in one hand.

“What—”

That was as far as he got before Bond swooped down to claim his mouth with his. As though he did this every day, ruthlessly kissing his Quartermaster like it was the most natural thing in the world.

This had no right to exist outside his daydreams, thought Q rather hazily, but then Bond was licking into his mouth, and Q found that he could no longer think straight.

The kisses went on, and on, the sounds they made lewd and wet. Someone was moaning brokenly and it took a moment for Q to realize that he was the one making the noise. At some point, Q’s hands were no longer imprisoned, but wound tight around Bond, still clutching his mug and all. Bond pressed in, grinding against Q as he released his mouth.

“You have no idea,” growled Bond just as Q gasped out a breath, “just how long I’ve wanted this, wanted you.”

“Bond—”

“I couldn’t make my move until I was sure that this is what you want as well,” said Bond as Q gave a low moan. The friction was delicious.

“Don’t stop,” Q whispered.

“I can’t, even if I want to,” breathed Bond. “You have me wrapped around your finger for so long, Q, and I couldn’t make you see your hold over me, until now.”

“Faster,” panted Q, only half-listening. “Please, Bond.”

“With pleasure,” Bond said as they rutted, fierce with need, against each other; there, right against Q’s door, through their clothes, with Q’s leg hooked over Bond’s, splayed wide apart as he pinned Q in place.

They came, fast, in liquid pulses, Q’s moan muffled against the collar of Bond’s shirt, no longer pristine. Bond’s face was pressed into Q’s hair and he inhaled the scent of this man whom he’d wanted for months and months. They leaned into each other, catching their breath as the last pulses ebbed away.

“Christ,” muttered Q, stunned. “What the hell was that?”

“A long overdue reckoning,” replied Bond against Q’s ear, shaking his head ruefully.

Q shook his head. He couldn’t help the smile spreading wide on his lips. Shock aside, he felt absurdly happy.

“So,” said Bond as he bent down to nuzzle at Q. “Dinner, later. Then I want to make love to you properly on a bed. Would you like that?”

Q nodded shyly as they kissed again, lightly this time. “Oh god,” he said, breaking out in a giggle, too giddy to even start contemplating the ramifications of coming in his pants. “How did this even happen? I just might start believing in Santa right about now.”

Bond hummed as he ran a hand affectionately over Q’s unruly hair. “You may want to start by thanking your Secret Santa. You have friends who care about you, very much.”

“Jesus,” said Q as everything clicked into place. “It’s R, isn’t it.”

“It would be safe to say we owe her. Loads.”


End file.
